


Nomenclature

by wagamiller



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Happy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 01:51:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6496150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wagamiller/pseuds/wagamiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Oliver, why does Curtis keep calling down here ‘the bunker’?”</i>
</p>
<p>Happy nonsense, set somewhere in the near-ish future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nomenclature

**Author's Note:**

> For Sus, because she sparked this by wondering about Oliver calling it 'the bunker' in 4x17. Also because it's her Birthday and she's awesome :) 
> 
> A million thanks to Macha for looking this over and for putting up with my stressing about, well, everything about this.
> 
> This is set vaguely in the near ish future, so please assume Oliver and Felicity are back together and they saved the day etc. Entirely written before this week's ep, which is why the big death isn't mentioned at all.

“Hey, Oliver?”

She’s barely past the first syllable of his name before he’s on his way over, abandoning whatever he was in the middle of. 

“Yeah? He practically skips up the ramp to her workstation, coming to a stop in front of her chair. “What’s up?” 

Felicity frowns, packing away the conversation about his sweet but entirely unnecessary hyper attentiveness for later. Right now she’s got more pressing problems. Problems like –

“Why does Curtis keep calling down here ‘the bunker’?”

“The – uh – the bunker?” Oliver blows out a breath, developing a sudden interest in reading the stream of half-written computer code on the monitors behind her. “I don’t know. That’s just what he calls it?”

“But none of us really call it that,” she says, standing up and tucking her chair away. “So who did Curtis get it from?”

“Well…” He actually stumbles backwards a couple of paces, her big bad superhero. 

“I’ve got a suspect in mind.” She takes a step towards him, swallowing a laugh as he blindly backs himself up into the medical table that's been left up on the platform, bumping the edge hard. “Tall, dark, handsome. Acting very shady when questioned.” She tilts her chin up at him, her eyes narrowing. “J’accuse!”

Oliver throws his hands up, chancing a laugh. “Maybe I might’ve–” 

“I knew it!” She jabs her index finger into his chest, drawing an exaggerated yelp of pain from him. “I knew this was your doing.”

“I don’t see what’s wrong with calling it the bunker,” he says, grabbing her finger before she can poke him again. He grazes her engagement ring as he laces their fingers together and that’s basically it then – game over – she can’t seem to stop herself smiling. “Y’know it kind of is a bunker, Felicity.”

“No it’s not. Bunkers are what those weird doomsday prep people have,” she says, tugging on his hand like that might make her point for her. “Y’know, it’s where they keep their tin cans and their bottled water and their plans for repopulating the Earth–”

“Listen, if you want to make plans for repopulating–” 

“Nice try. I’m telling you, Oliver, this? This is not a bunker.”

“Okay, okay, fine,” he relents, huffing an overdramatic sigh. “It’s not a bunker.”

“Honestly, I leave you alone for a few weeks–”

“Nine weeks,” he interrupts, dropping her hands and winding his arms around her waist instead, tugging her against him. He looks down at her, serious and sad but somehow still kind of smiling. Because this is week ten, maybe, and she’s home now. “Nine weeks, Felicity.”

“Okay, nine weeks,” she amends, softening. She rests her hand on his chest, tracing a pattern over the soft cotton of his t-shirt. “I leave you alone for nine weeks and you just – you just start changing things left, right and center down here.”

“One thing,” he says, huffing out a frustrated laugh. “I changed one thing.”

“One thing too many,” she mutters, pulling another laugh from him.

“What would you like Curtis to call it then?”

“Well, for a while there I was okay with calling it ‘the lair’,” she says, extricating herself from his arms and spinning around to consider the space, hands on her hips. “Although if you ask me, that kind of gives off a bad guy vibe which really doesn’t fit with our MO.”

“I suppose I could live with ‘lair’,” Oliver says, settling his hands on her waist from behind, his chin resting on the crown of her head. “If I have to.”

“No, I don’t think so,” she says, spinning to face him again. “I think the ship has kind of sailed on that one now.”

“What then?”

“Good question.”

“I don’t really care what you call it,” he says, tugging her close again and locking his hands at her back. “So long as you’re here.”

Felicity hums her approval, leaning up onto her tiptoes to kiss him. Because she can. Because she loves him. And okay, mostly because he just walked right into her little trap. When they separate there’s this moment where he simply smiles at her, blissfully unaware that he just gave her permission to –

“The Arrow Cave, then.”

“What? Wait, I didn’t mean–”

“Oooh, too late,” she says, laughing right into his outraged face. “You just agreed.”

“No! No, I didn’t. You tricked me.”

“I did no such thing.”

She beams at him, flush with her success, and watches as his face passes from irritated to amused to ... maybe a little bit turned on? He growls a dissatisfied sound low in his throat and tightens his hands on her waist, picking her up and spinning her so fast that the room – the bunker – the lair – the cave – _whatever_ – blurs into a whirl of shining chrome and fluorescent light. She lands, hard, backed up against the table where he was standing and then his hands are in her hair, tugging it gently back in a wordless demand for her to tilt her face up to meet his lips.

“Hey, hey, hold on a minute,” she says, because she’s just remembered the one thing in the world that’s more important than kissing this smirk off his face. 

“It’s okay, everyone’s gone. It’s just us–”

“It’s not that.” She lays her hands on his chest, gently pushing for a little space. “It’s what you just said. About me being here.”

Oliver steps back a little, panic crossing his face. “Felicity–”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay! It’s nothing bad,” she says quickly, reaching for his hand and giving it a squeeze. “It’s … well it’s this, actually. Case in point.”

“I don’t – I’m not following.”

“Remember when I asked you for this ring back? And I said it was forever?”

“I remember,” he says, tilting their joined hands slightly, making her ring shine.

“I meant it.”

“Yeah.” He nods slowly, like he’s still not sure what’s happening. “I know that.”

“Do you? ‘Cause right now you seem a little … careful.”

“Careful?”

“You’re on your best behavior.”

He stiffens, like this is a test and he doesn’t know the answer. Or even the question. “That’s a bad thing?”

“It’s a sad thing, kind of,” she says, letting go of his hand and tugging on his shirt, pulling him down a little closer to her level. “I don’t want you on your best behavior – I mean, I do, obviously I do. Like best behavior like putting the toilet seat down and picking up your socks and not lying about secret children in other cities–”

“Agreed.”

“But that’s not – I’m not – wow, I’m really not explaining this very well.” She huffs out a breath, upset with herself for putting that pinch of a frown between his eyes without any means of removing it. 

“Felicity, it’s–”

“What I’m trying to say is … you’re not on probation, okay? I’m not sitting here waiting for you to do something to hurt me again. I’m not worried about that, not anymore, not after everything that happened.” She lays her hand right over his heart, where it’s beating strong and a little frantic. “I’m here because I chose to be. Because I chose you. Period. No take-backs.”

“No take-backs,” he repeats quietly, mustering a tremulous smile. His guard drops with it, letting her see the flicker of fear lurking behind his happiness. “Promise?” 

Felicity nods, loaning him her certainty until he remembers his own. “Promise.”

“Okay, then.” Oliver nods back, a real smile stealing across his face, chasing away every last shadow of doubt. It’s like watching him wake up, watching that smile grow. Like watching him come alive. “I’ll try to be less … perfect, I guess.”

“You can still keep cooking all my favorite things, though. I’m totally okay with that kind of perfection.”

“You – uh – noticed that, huh?”

“Oh yeah, days ago. But I wasn’t gonna bring it up until I got a crème brûlée out of you.”

“You got it.”

“Thank you.” She breathes out a long sigh, feeling lighter and maybe, just maybe, a tiny bit stupid. Good stupid. Happy stupid. “Now that we’ve got that sorted…”

She skips around him, quickly tapping out a command on the nearest keyboard. 

“What–”

“Locking down the elevator… just in case.” Coming back round to the med table, she sweeps a hand out across it, pushing a stray roll of gauze out of the way before hopping up onto the cool surface and settling herself right on the edge. “Now where were we?”

As she reaches for the knot on his sweatpants, tugging him towards her, a different kind of panic flashes over his face. A much, much more fun kind of panic. “Felicity, what’re you–”

“I interrupted you before,” she says, carefully setting her glasses aside and waving an inviting hand down her body. “But you may now continue.”

Oliver rumbles a laugh – a deep, joyful sound that makes every nerve ending in her body sing. She shuffles forward a little, opening her knees for him, her skirt tight as it rides up her thighs. Oliver’s eyes darken at once, dropping to the flash of pale skin above her knees like the delightfully predictable, totally into her, wonderful fiancé that he is.

“In the interests of not being on my best behavior all the time,” he says, as he steps into the space she’s created, “I should really tell you something.”

“Oh yeah?” Her voice is barely there, breathless and needy all of a sudden. “What’s that?”

He hovers over her until she whines a little and arches her neck, desperate for some contact. Then he leans in closer, so close that his lips graze her ear as he says, “I’m never calling it the Arrow Cave.”

Felicity splutters a laugh, surprised and delighted and so fucking charmed that she can’t seem to stop, just keeps laughing right up until he captures her lips with his own. She whimpers at the connection, still kind of laughing even as he reaches for her hips, dragging her none too gently further forward until she has to hold onto him to stay on the desk at all. Then he’s laughing along with her, barely managing to keep holding her steady, one hand on her back and the other trapped under the tight fabric of her skirt, his fingers warm and rough and perfect against the smooth skin of her thigh. 

And it’s just the best, the absolute best feeling in the whole world to be sitting here, on this ridiculously cold table, laughing and happy and wanting him so freaking much. She melts into him, the remaining distance between them quickly becoming unbearable, utterly unforgivable. She scoots back, trying to force her legs open wider for him, struggling with her skirt. “It’s no good – I can’t–”

“I could – I could tear it?” he says, leaning his forehead against hers, his hand hovering over the hem of her skirt.

“That would definitely count as bad behavior,” she says, surging up to kiss him again. 

“Well, you asked for it.” Grabbing the skirt in both hands, he shoves it up until it pools at the very top of her thighs, miraculously still in one piece. Swallowing her gasp of surprise with a kiss, he drops one hand to push her knees apart and steps right into the space there. “Better?”

“Better.” She hisses at the contact as he presses himself against her. The table is cold against her bare skin, really unbelievably fucking cold, but then his hands are on her ass, pressing her even further forwards until she grinds against him, and she forgets to care about anything but having him. Now. On this freezing cold table. “Yeah that’s – that’s better.”

Sensing her fraying patience, he slows his kisses down, drawing it out. She moves impatiently against him but he doesn’t change his pace, just soothes her with steady strokes of his hands down her back. She reaches for the knot on his sweatpants again and he hums a needy sound that makes her fingers shake as they tangle in the thread. Giving up, she tugs at his t-shirt instead and he takes the hint at once, pulling it up and off in one smooth motion.

The sound she makes at the sight of him is strangled and desperate, like she’s never seen the hard lines of his body before, like her fingers don’t already know the path of those ridges, the line of every scar. She reaches for him but he knocks her hand aside, focussed on tugging her camisole out of her skirt and over her head, before tossing it to join his shirt on the floor. Then he’s kissing her again, all urgency and nipping teeth, his languid pace quite forgotten.

“Wait, wait, are we – are we actually doing this?” she asks, even as she fumbles with her bra, trying to undo it one handed. Too impatient to wait, he peels one cup down and then his mouth is on her and it’s too late, fine motor skills are hopelessly beyond her now. Well, sex in her bra it is then. Been a while since they’ve been that desperate. “Here?”

“Nine weeks, Felicity,” he all but growls, his voice low and dangerous as she brushes her hand blindly over the front of his pants, trying to slide them down. “ _Two months._ We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

“Yeah but right – right here in the Arrow Cave?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says, not rising to her bait about the name, too intent on trailing his hand up her thigh, pushing her panties aside. “Probably won’t be the last.”

“Yeah but – oh fuck, Oliver, yes – up here on the _platform_?” She glances around wildly, taking in their ridiculously compromised position – both of them half dressed, his hand trapped between her legs. “In front of my _computers?”_

He laughs at that, dropping his head against her shoulder. “You’re the one who locked us in. What did you think would happen?” 

“Fair point,” she says, lifting her hips carefully to let him pull her panties down. She dips one hand into his pants, finding him hard and ready, his hips bucking helplessly the second she touches him. “Won’t you feel a little too … exposed?” 

“That’s kind of the point,” he says, taking his hands off her long enough to shove his pants and underwear down to his ankles. He groans as she closes her hand over his cock, guiding him towards her. “You look – Felicity, you look so amazing up there right now. I can’t – I can’t wait, I–”

Swallowing his desperate words with a kiss, she lifts her hips a little, just enough to let him slide home. He stills for a moment, letting her adjust, his forehead pressed to hers. Then he moves, ever so slightly, circling his hips just enough to make her moan for more – more pressure, more friction, just – “More, Oliver. Please. Just _move_.”

He complies to her demand at once, building to a faster rhythm, holding her hips tight and helping her move with him despite the shallow angle. She lets her head fall back, giving herself over to him completely, letting him set the pace. But it’s not quite enough, half sitting up like this, and soon she’s whimpering her dissatisfaction into his shoulder.

He sweeps a hand vaguely behind her, clattering her glasses to the floor. “Lie back.” Cradling her neck with one hand, he lays her down onto the table, his heavy, familiar weight landing mostly on her. 

“Yes, Oliver, that’s–” She pants his name, losing herself for a while to the heat of his body and the cool of the table, and the feel of him moving inside her, familiar and wonderful and never, ever, quite enough. “Please–”

“Fuck, Felicity. You’re so – you’re –” He gives up, babbling nonsense into her ear with every movement. Then, without warning, he pulls her half up against him again, her ass barely still on the table, and the sudden change leaves her teetering on the edge. Recognising the telltale hitch in her breathing, feeling the tremors in her legs as she tries to lock them around him, he eases her back enough to push a hand between her legs, his thumb finding her clit. “Come for me, Felicity.”

Her orgasm sweeps over her almost the second he speaks – his voice hot and demanding against her collarbone – and she goes boneless at once, gabbling a sound that might be his name. 

He slows for a while, riding it out for her, before his control starts to fray and he snaps his hips up again, chasing his own release. She drops back down to the cool table and opens her legs wider for him, letting him take over. 

“Say it,” she says with a wild laugh, right as his rhythm grows more desperate. “Call it the Arrow Cave.”

He comes suddenly at that, with a groan that’s more than half a laugh, and then they’re right back where they started, laughing and laughing and laughing, neither one of them able to stop. 

Even when they separate, he’s still laughing, biting his lip to try and compose himself as he stares down at her. She’s still sprawled out across the table, her bra half off, lipstick probably smudged off her face, if the color on his lips is anything to go by. 

“Fine,” he says, grinning helplessly at her. “I give up. It’s the Arrow Cave.”

“There,” she says, letting him sit her upright again. She pulls her bra straps back up, tugging her skirt down a little as he awkwardly pulls his pants back up from round his ankles. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

“You’re impossible.”

The open adoration on his face is beyond lovely, almost as lovely as the flush on his cheeks. He wears an orgasm so damn well, it almost makes her want to go another round. On a warmer surface, maybe.

“And you love me.”

“I do,” he agrees, pressing a quick kiss to the side of her mouth. Leaning down to the floor, he collects her glasses, checking them for damage before passing them back to her.

“We should really – clean up.” She looks around them, suddenly aware of the extremely bright lighting in a way she’s grateful she wasn’t five minutes ago. “Ourselves.” She splutters a laugh, still surprised at their boldness. “The table.”

“Probably.” Oliver laughs, the sound deliciously smug. 

“I can’t believe we just did that.”

“Really?” he says, straightening out a twist in her bra strap for her. “Felicity, we had sex on the conference table the day it got installed. And in those chairs when–

“Okay, okay, point taken. We’re exhibitionist weirdos. But up there is a new one, even for us.”

“Nine–”

“I know, I know, nine weeks. Go clean yourself up,” she says, shooing him away. “Bring a cloth for me. And … wipes for the table. Lots of wipes. The whole packet.”

Oliver leans in and kisses her forehead, still smirking. “Be right back.”

Felicity watches him go, the muscles in his back moving smoothly as he heads towards the bathroom. She rests her hand on the edge of the table while she waits for him, kicking her feet against the floor and tilting her ring under the lights, scattering starbursts across the ceiling. 

 


End file.
